


One Hell of a Fight

by kayliemalinza



Series: The Normal Trilogy [3]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Anxiety, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Depression, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-17
Updated: 2002-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "His Life was Back to Normal" and "He'd Figure It Out Later". They finallyget a clue.</p><p>Teaser: The door was only fifteen feet away. Through it, Arthur could see flurries of white as another snowstorm started. If he could only make it out the door, he could rush home and escape whatever dreaded “relationship talk” Curt was going to inflict on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Library

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the date--this was written in late 2002. I can't promise this fic doesn't have any ish. Actually, I can promise that there's some gross gender essentialism in here and probably some internalized misogyny/effemenophobia. Although some of that is probably a little tongue-in-cheek? Anyway, if that kind of thing doesn't bother you, then this is probably a pretty fun read.

Arthur stared at the rows of books in the basement of the library. It was dim down here, and smelled faintly musty, but here was where the newspaper indexes were kept. He scanned a shelf, searching for a 1926 index of the Times. After his article on Brian Slade had been pulled, Lou had tried to cheer him up with more investigative assignments. Arthur liked them, really. He had a good head for clues, and there was less necessity for interviews. People always felt they could talk openly with Arthur, and that got boring after a while. Especially when they trailed off the subject. But anyway, investigative reporting suited him just fine, which was probably why he was deep in the stacks at nine-thirty on Christmas Eve. 

Arthur didn’t even bother to sigh. This wasn’t new. 

He found his book, and several others which might be useful, and headed back to the table to flip through them. One of them proved to be rather interesting, if not exactly relevant. After a quick glance to see that the single librarian working tonight was nowhere to be seen, he propped his feet up on the table and put on his glasses. He was nose-deep in the book when he heard footsteps across the marble floor. Arthur didn’t look up; the footsteps didn’t sound like the librarian’s fancy shoes, so he didn’t worry. It was probably just the janitor, who would quietly go about his business and leave Arthur alone. But the footsteps got closer, and there was no sound of a mop being trailed across the floor. The gait was not the shuffling, aching gait of the man who worked here, either. Instead, the steps were heavy, paced by unconscious, rhythmic swagger, and heading right towards him. Arthur froze. He gazed steadily at the book, pretending that the person had not stopped right in front of him, was not sitting down, was not opening their own book and staring right at him. 

I will not look up, he thought. It was none of his business, despite the fact that this person chose to sit right in front of him, even when there are three other tables in plain view. Probably just some late studying college kid, too tired to notice there was someone else there. I will not look up. I will not look up. I will not--

He looked up. A book lay open on the table. A figure hunched in the stiff, wooden chair, arms laying on the book. On the arms rested a chin, which was attached to a face, which sported a fringe of blonde hair and two big, sad eyes.

Shit, thought Arthur.

“You left me, man. You hurt my feelings.” The voice had a teasing quality to it, but Arthur didn’t doubt the words were true. He felt like a mean, insensitive bastard. For the first time, Arthur wondered if being manly wasn’t as great as he thought. But at the moment, womanly tact and wit sure as hell wasn’t going to make an appearance by way of his mouth. 

And Curt was still looking at him, eyes honest and watching. Arthur blinked, eyes owlish behind his thick glasses. There was so much that could happen right now; with one word, Arthur could take Curt up on his offer, and they would have a good, sweet, slow snog, and then go somewhere else and be friendly, casual, intimate. They could have more than a collection of moments, more than the briefest hours together. The most dearly coveted thing in he world was within reach. It would only take one word, one gesture of understanding and emotion.

Arthur lifted his book and began to read again. 

There was stunned silence from the other side of the table. Then, an explosion.

“Jesus, Arthur! You’re the stupidest son of a bitch I’ve ever met!” There was a great leap across the tabletop, and Arthur found himself hauled out of the chair. For a moment he tensed wondering with brief, sharp anticipation if Curt was going to fuck him in the library. Then his arms were jammed into the sleeves of his coat, his bag was shoved at his chest, and he was dragged towards the stairs. 

“But... I.... where....?” His voice seemed small and pathetically British. Curt answered his unasked question.

“We’re going to your place. It’s warmer.” They were at the front desk, now. The rest of the library was dim and deserted. Curt whistled for the irate librarian, who clicked on high heels from the back room. “Hey lady. I wanna check this out,” he said, waving the book he’d had before. She gave him a glare, snatching it from his hand and damning whatever in nine hells had put her on inventory duty tonight. 

Arthur gazed around, still confused. He slowly took his glasses off and put them away, surreptitiously wondering how he could get out of this. The door was only fifteen feet away. Through it, he could see flurries of white as another snowstorm started. If he could only make it out the door, he could rush home and escape whatever dreaded “relationship talk” Curt was going to inflict on him. Arthur made his way cautiously towards it, trying not to make any noise as he slid across the marble floor. He was three feet away from Curt, four, five-- 

A firm hand grasped his upper arm and dragged him back, nearly sending him into the desk. Damn. The librarian scowled as she handed the book to Curt.

“It’s due by the seventeenth,” she sneered. She clicked back to her cup of coffee, glad to see those weirdos go. Curt flicked her off as soon as her back was turned. He tucked the book into a roomy pocket of his leather duster, and made for the door with Arthur following slowly behind. 

Outside the door, Curt wasted no time in lighting a cigarette. 

“I fucking hate libraries,” he said, taking a luxurious first drag. “They don’t let you smoke.” Arthur mumbled some sort of condolences, zipping up his coat as the wind picked up. He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring glumly at the ground. Curt studied him a moment. “Hey man,” he said, raising his voice a little over the wind. “You’re not going to be executed.” Arthur looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. Curt laughed, flicking ash off his cig. He glanced around the dark, empty, white-speckled street and gently pushed Arthur into a shadowed corner. “You don’t have to work tomorrow, do you?” he said, gently cupping Arthur’s cheek. Arthur dumbly shook his head, closing his eyes against the warm breath as Curt moved into kiss him. For several minutes. With lots of tongue. 

Sex, thought Arthur. Good, warm, wiggly sex on Christmas Eve. Curt pulled away, eyes shining as he started down the street. Arthur followed eagerly.


	2. Arthur's Apartment

By the time they got to Arthur's apartment, he had forgotten all about their last conversation, and what Curt had said. Instead, he happily unlocked the door and breezed inside,holding it open for Curt to saunter through. He closed the door gently, bracing himself to be shoved up against it and fiercely kissed. After a moment, he realized that Curt had continued onto the kitchen, and was getting a beer from the fridge.

"I see you've made yourself at home," he said, somewhat petulantly. Curt grinned and handed him a bottle, sweeping past to flop down on the couch. Arthur stared at the bottle in his hand. It wasn't what he wanted to be holding. He wasn't even thirsty, dammit. Curt turned on the tv. Arthur blinked. "Nuthin' on but specials," he said at last. Curt made a face, coming to the same conclusion as he flipped through the channels.

"Fuck," he said, turning it off and tossing the remote beside him. He glanced up at Arthur,who was standing next to the couch with an unopened beer and an expression of bafflement. "Sit down, Arthur," he said, patting the cushions. "Let's talk." Arthur's eyes widened, and he backed slowly away. Talking was bad. Talking to Curt was bad. It was bad because he wouldn't have anything to say, and he would look stupid, and Curt wouldn't want to have sex with him anymore. Sex was good. Arthur liked sex. He wanted to have sex, right now. He said as much.

"I want to have sex."

Curt raised an eyebrow at him. "So do I," he said. "But let's not. Let's have a nice conversation." He stood up, not making any sudden movements.

Arthur blanched. "But... sex-" he said.

Curt took a step towards him. "Not right now, Arthur. Ok?" he said, hoping it would be that easy.

"Why? I want to have sex now." Arthur seemed adamant.

"Because there's kids. I don't want them to hear," Curt explained. Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

"You didn't care before," he said suspiciously.

"Arthur, use your head," Curt sighed. "It's Christmas Eve. Every little kid in the building is trying to stay awake, listening for any sign of Santa Claus. Alright?" He sounded a little exasperated.

Arthur finally seemed to get the point. "Oh," he said. "So, later, we'll have sex, right?"

Curt smiled at him. "Yes, Arthur," he said. Arthur let out a sigh of relief. Then he noticed he was still holding the beer in his hand. He decided to open it.

Curt was looking at him with an amused expression."You have a one-track mind, don't you?" he said.

Arthur took a sip. "Not really," he said. "Sometimes I think about newspapers."

Curt nodded, taking a sip as well."Sometimes I think about guitars," he said.

Arthur tried to look interested. "Yeah?" he offered.

Curt nodded. "Yeah. I play guitar."

"Oh. Yeah. I forgot." Arthur said, nodding.

Curt looked at Arthur for a moment. "This is stupid," he said.

"Yeah." There was a long silence. They both stood there, awkwardly holding their beers and trying not to think too much about the last few minutes. Eventually, they realized they still had their coats on, and awkwardly took them off, still awkwardly trying to hold their beers. Then they awkwardly walked to the coat rack and awkwardly hung their coats up. Then they looked at each other.

Curt scratched his head.

Arthur looked at his feet.

Then they went back to the couch,sat down, and drank some more beer.

Arthur scratched his head.

Curt looked at his feet.

Finally, Arthur pulled himself together and brought all of his investigative skills to bear. "You checked out a book," he said. Curt sensed a conversation and leapt on it.

"Yeah! Nietzsche." He looked at Arthur, who had drawn a blank. "You heard of him? He's a German philosopher, kinda harsh and cynical."

Philosopher? thought Arthur. He probably should have seen this coming, after Curt's little speech about artists at the bar, weeks ago. Arthur wondered if he should crawl out a window.

Curt had jumped up to retrieve the book from his duster, and had returned. "I don't think he really likes women, either," he said.

"What makes you say that?" Arthur asked. Just stay calm, he told himself.

Curt shrugged, sitting back on the couch. "I dunno. Some of the things he says." He thumbed through the book. "Here's one." Curt settled in, clearing his throat a bit. "'There are women who, however you may search them, proveto have no content but are purely masks.'"

Arthur snorted, halfway agreeing.

Curt grinned at him."Just wait, it get's better. 'The man who associates with such almost spectral, necessarily unsatisfied beings is to be commiserated with, yet it is precisely they who are able to arouse the desire of the man most strongly: he seeks for her soul - and goes on seeking.'"

Arthur smiled. "You're right," he said. "He is cynical."

Curt chuckled, then suddenly seemed to remember something. "Oh!" he said, quickly flipping through pages. "Wanna hear my favorite quote?"

Arthur smiled at his enthusiasm. "I think you've checked out that book before," he said.

Curt flashed him a wolfish grin,and found the page. He briefly read it to himself, lips silently moving, face transformed into something wiser, despairing. He looked at Arthur before he began, eyes subdued. His voice became more gravelly and low, and Arthur felt himself sinking as he listened. "'I caught this insight on the way and quickly seized the rather poor words that were closest to hand to pin it down lest it fly away again. And now it has died of these arid words and shakes and flaps in them - and I hardly know any more when I look at it how I could ever have felt so happy when I caught this bird.'" He stopped.

Arthur stared at his beer bottle. "Gee," he said.

"Yeah."

"Nietzsche depresses me," he said.

Curt chuckled. "That's most people's first impression. I like his honesty and brutalness. And those lines...Makes me think about things I've done. Not just songs, but everything..." Curt gently closed the book. He stared at the cover for a moment, then laid it aside. He turned back to Arthur with a smile. "So!" he said, cheerful again. "Whose your favorite cynicist?"

Arthur snorted again, taking a swig of beer. Oh, crap, he thought. I am very, very boring. This is a very, very, bad idea. "Well, I... you know. Stuff I read in school and all," he rambled out, sounding casual.

Curt looked vaguely confused, and Arthur decided to change the subject before Curt realized he hadn't answered the question at all. However, he found he didn't have any better topic for conversation. Panic seized him. He jumped up, taking Curt's empty beer and escaping to the kitchen. He threw it away and went to wash his hands, just wanting something to do. Suddenly, his belly was a tight coil of unease, self-deprecation sending shivers down his spine. He'd never been able to answer philosophy. He'd never had the courage or the incentive to think beyond his own existence. And now, talking with Curt, who probably had that entire book memorized, he felt incredibly dumb. I am not dumb, he told himself. I went to school. I graduated college. I have a job that requires intelligence. Arthur grimaced and scrubbed harder. Somehow he didn't think Curt would want to know about verb tenses, or what President Reynolds did on his last political trip. And if he did, he could read it in the goddamned newspaper.

"Hey man. I think your hands are clean." Curt had entered the kitchen quietly. He leaned against the counter, looking worriedly at Arthur. Arthur immediately turned away, snapping off the water and grabbing a towel. Curt watched his tense back, the stiff bent of his neck, and moved to put his hands on his shoulders. Arthur jerked away, but Curt slipped his arms around his waist."Hey," he said, a low rumble in Arthur's ear. "I think the little kids are asleep now."

Arthur looked down at the towel, twisted violently between his fingers. It blurred suspiciously, and Arthur quickly blinked away the burning liquid in his eyes. "I uh... We should probably wait a while longer. I can make some food..." His voice trailed off as Curt turned him around and kissed him. Curt's hands were warm on his arms, and he kissed him, a little insistently, roughly, and though Arthur didn't know it, reassuringly.

Curt gently took the towel from Arthur's hands and dropped it to the floor. Their bodies soon followed, like slow rain.

What the hell am I doing, thought Curt.


	3. The Bent Fork

Twenty-three minutes later, Curt breathed in gently the scent of Arthur’s hair. They were sprawled across the hard tile, sticky and cold, but he didn’t want to move. Arthur’s head lay on his arm, and he faced away from him, looking at the dust bunnies under the refrigerator. Curt traced patterns along the other’s ribs. 

“Arthur,” he said. There came no answer. Curt raised himself to his elbow, peering down. “Arthur, I know you’re not sleeping,” he said. “Look at me.” Arthur turned only slightly. His eyes glittered at Curt from beneath slitted lids. Curt sighed and lay back down. This was getting more and more difficult. He tapped his fingers on Arthur’s arm, wondering how to say it. “I was thinking--” he began.

“That was your first mistake.” Arthur’s voice was sullen, sleepy. 

Curt scowled. “Shut up, man. Ok, like I said....” he ran his fingers through his hair. “I really like you.” Way to go, Curt, he thought. What prepubescent girl wouldn’t be proud of that one? 

Arthur quietly snorted.“You should write songs,” he said. “You have a gift. Really.” 

Curt glared at the back of Arthur’s head. “Dammit.” He sat up and leaned back against the counter. Arthur curled up more, snatching his shirt to serve as a replacement pillow. Curt nudged him with a foot. “Arthur, I’m trying to tell you something. Don’t be a smart-ass.” 

“Don’t be a dumb-ass, then.” Arthur’s reply was slightly muffled. Curt narrowed his eyes, thinking of several things he could do to Arthur’s ass that didn’t involve sex. Not directly, anyway.

“Arthur,” he said.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Arthur.”

“What?” Arthur lifted his head a fraction of an inch.

“I like you.” 

“Fine.” He dropped his head again. Curt nearly growled. 

“Arthur.” There was no response. He looked around for some inspiration, and grinned when he saw a fork sticking out from under the counter. He poked Arthur with it. Hard.

“What in bloody fucking hell!” Arthur reared up, glaring at Curt and ready to strike. 

Curt grinned. “I like you,” he said. 

Arthur glowered at him, scooting out of his reach and lying down again. Curt looked at Arthur’s back. It was a view he’d been getting a lot lately. However, he was nothing if not determined. He stealthily crawled across the floor to Arthur, and poked him again. No response. He poked again, and again, gently and in the same place every time. He could hear Arthur’s quickened, irritated breathing, and decided to up the ante.

“Arthur,” he said. “Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur--” Arthur rose, and in one quick motion, had grabbed the fork, bent it in half, and thrown it across the room. Just as quickly, he made to return to his defensive curl, but Curt caught his arm. “I like you,” he said.

“Why the hell do you keep saying that!” Arthur’s yell echoed through the kitchen, reverberating down the hallways and waking several small, hopeful children. Curt winced a little bit, repressing the urge to put a hand to his ear. He smiled sadly at Arthur, who stared in anger, uncomprehending. 

“Because you don’t believe me yet,” Curt said. Arthur just shook his head, standing to leave. Curt bit his nail, thinking quickly. This wasn’t getting through to Arthur. Curt realized he had to show Arthur, in a language they both understood. He grabbed at Arthur, yanking him to the floor. They struggled, Arthur doing his best to get his elbows into the fray, but Curt soon backed himself against the counter, clasping Arthur tightly to his chest and holding him with his legs. Defeated, Arthur glared out at the baleful kitchen appliances, silently cursing the man behind him. Curt almost laughed. He shifted his limbs about, careful not to give any slack, and slid one hand down Arthur’s chest. He nuzzled Arthur’s neck, bringing his mouth right to his ear. 

“Now, I know you’re not stupid,” he told the seething man. “But you just can’t seem to grasp the concept....” Lower, his hand grasped something else. Arthur drew in a quick gasp. Curt flicked his tongue against his ear lobe and continued. “--that I like you.” Lower, Arthur liked something else

Curt took his time, wielding his left hand expertly. The victim squirmed, trying to remain stoic, or calm, or coherent. But it was a lost cause, and soon his forehead gleamed with sweat. He bit his lower lip, smothering a cry as other teeth ran about his neck, creating small hurts healed by a quick, wet tongue. All too soon, and an eternity later, he gave a last, wordless shudder and became boneless. Curt laughed softly, holding him up with one strong arm. “I like you,” he said. Arthur’s eyelids fluttered; he did not respond, only breathing as Curt wiped him clean with a nearby shirt. Then both arms wrapped gently around him again, the powerful thighs rising from either side of him. Arthur relaxed into it, not caring that this was cuddling. Post-coital snuggling is ok, he reasoned. His head lolled to the side, and he caught Curt’s eye. 

He grinned.“I don’t like you,” he said. Again, shocked silence. Curt stared at him, hurt. Yes, thought Arthur. Be hurt. Hurt me. And leave again. Let my life be normal. 

The arms around him loosened; Curt was pushing him away, moving Arthur from his warm embrace. Arthur pretended that was what he wanted. He removed himself from the embrace. He was backing away, he was letting Curt go. He wanted to. 

He was going to let Curt Wilde go.

But Curt Wilde was not going. 

Arthur had only a moment for disbelief, calculation of error, and deeply, deeply hidden gratitude before Curt was on him, capturing his waist with languid strength, crushing his lips with pain, desperation, and a last moment of god-given stubbornness. 

Curt wished they were both virgins. He wished that society was not so heartless, so that his lips and fingers and warm thick torso, and their naked bodies and scattered clothes and the cold, hard, tile floor might mean more than convenience and the mutual goal of orgasm. He wished that every undulation and nip and sweet, coursing sensation were new, unfelt or explored before, and sacred. He had seen Arthur’s eyes. He almost hated him for their lies, their denial and grieving glee and casual, cold-cutting death stroke. And he had seen other things as well, other things that now ran through his fingertips, to every nerve he could touch, and every bit of slick, sliding skin. He had seen Arthur to the core. Everything there frustrated him. It could be so easy, he thought. So easy to strip that away, and burn the problems and the issues and masks of shame that Arthur held so tightly between his teeth. But Arthur would not let go, and it was frustrating. 

Because Curt had a personal investment in this now. He was stubborn. He saw what he wanted, reached for it, and was denied. All his sweet-talk and patience had done nothing, and Curt couldn’t wait anymore. He gave every movement of himself, every skill he knew and learned, every instinct and inspiration to making Arthur scream and writhe and stutter, his gasps helpless and intensely pleasured. Thick fingers swept down limbs, teeth and tongue leaving gleaming trails on the roadmap of the human body. Everything went faster, all muscles and twists and crying utterances. Curt was too far gone now. All emotion twined inside him, anger and frustration chafing like fur on his desert-dried insides. And from the burning dryness gushed waters, bodily fluids of every kind and smell, everything rushing upwards and boiling, erupting, spreading itself on one Arthur Stuart.

He no longer liked Arthur. Not at all.

He loved him. 


	4. The Broken Knife

Arthur awoke, like most of his life, alone. It was a slow, subtle awakening, as if reality and fantasy were both so dreamlike as to shed all distinction. His eyes were open; limp winter light dropped through the window and he spent a moment simply being. His body sunk into the bed, limbs heavy and still. Everything was quiet, unmoving, and clear. Everything was. All in all, Arthur decided, he was content. And very, very, satisfied.

Arthur sighed happily and rolled over, curling under the thick, warm covers. Arthur closed his eyes, and was nearly asleep when he remembered that he was alone.

He wasn’t supposed to be.

Something unnamed rose in him; The tidal wave was bearing down upon him, threatening him with the unknown and unfamiliar thing people called emotion. Arthur jerked out of bed, heading for the shower before it could grab hold of him. The shampoo suds and brutal fingers washed it away, and the painful thing inside him drowned in soapy water. Then he stepped out, combed his hair and shaved. The dripping in the shower slowed, then stopped.

It returned. Arthur fled. He left the bathroom, getting dressed and brushing through the living room, not noticing the book next to the couch. He reached the kitchen, grabbed the carton of orange juice. He poured a glass, pushing away the hollow, rushing thing seeping in him. He toasted his bread, got the butter and a knife, and tried to ignore the smell of sex. He ignored the smell.

The smell of sex.

And the dam broke. Arthur’s thoughts flooded him, pointing out things he’d rather not remember. Like the smell of sex. And hands, fingertips and fingernails. Hard knees, rough thighs, slick smooth lips and eyes.... Eyes. Arthur followed that thought. He allowed the image, wondering at the sharp pain that blossomed from it. Then he shook his head at it, buttering his toast. He’d wanted Curt to leave. He’d made Curt leave, he’d pushed him away. And Curt had left. It made perfect sense. All the evidence added up: obviously, Curt liked Arthur. But Arthur didn’t like Curt. The knife stabbed at more butter, almost violent now. Curt got burned, and left. End of story. Arthur could even be commended for ending the liaison before it hurt Curt more. Yes, Arthur was the hero, untouched and invulnerable.

Who the fuck was he kidding.

Arthur stared at his toast, its crispy brown texture marked with holes, hopelessly mangled. The knife was undamaged. He flung it into the sink, embracing the shock of the loud clatter of metal against metal. Broken bread, perfect knife. What a bloody fucking incorrect metaphor. The knife only hurt itself in buttering the bread. The knife was torn inside. The knife should be! How dare the knife parade around like that, pretending it hadn’t done a fucking thing, calling itself a hero! The knife must be punished.

The knife must die.

Arthur grabbed the bastard utensil, holding it against the edge of the counter, head hanging over into air, begging for its life. The meat tenderizer, like Excalibur, flew to Arthur’s hand. He raised it high, nostrils flaring as he briefly considered morality, the balance of life, crimes against humanity and vengeance. Then the alloyed weapon came down again and again, striking the thin blade of the knife with angry effort, twisting the body and soul, flinging its crying excuses to the floor to ping and clatter against debased tile, cold and smelling of sex.

Arthur threw the knife away from him; he despised it. It skid across the floor, coming to a long, slow stop next to a bent fork. The knife was a grotesque image, streaked with scars and vibrating with recently expended energy. The handle jutted out from the spinning, twisted blade, creating dizzying aerodynamics as it slowed, slowed, slowed, and very, very gently touched the fork. For a brief, silent moment, all was still. Then the knife cracked, and broke in two.

Arthur stood in shock, dropping the meat tenderizer. He had no idea what had just happened. He stared at the remains of the knife, breathing heavily.

The door opened. Arthur whirled around, eyes wide and startled. The intruder was taking off his coat, hanging it up, face hidden by a shock of stringy sunbeams. It was Curt. Arthur stared, slowly blinking. The knife disappeared from his thoughts. The river was back in him again, but now rushed gently through his limbs, invigorating. Curt stood up, shaking the hair out of his eyes and looking nervously at Arthur.

Arthur smiled. Curt crossed quickly to the kitchen, shyly smirking up at him.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, and kissed him. Arthur knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn’t care. It was the best sort of apathy, marked by warm arms about his waist and gentle wiggles. There were the malleable entities of lips, dry against a dripping, questing tongue, and the soft exhalations of the other as they calmly, fondly kissed. For the moment, nothing else mattered. Then they slowly peeled apart, but it was only air between them.

Curt happened to glance at the counter. “Wow,” he said. “You sure did a number on the toast.”

Arthur turned his head and felt sick. The remains of the toast lay forlornly on the counter, its crumbs scattered across the surface like flowers on a grave. Flakes of wood fell from the edge, where the meat tenderizer had gouged away part of the plastic covering. Arthur thought of the damaged knife and fork behind him, and their hideous representations of life, circumstance, and crimes against the innocent. The river turned sour and boiled. He backed away from Curt.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore!” he yelled, and ran out of the apartment.

For a second, Curt stared at the spot Arthur had recently vacated. Then, he jumped to pursue him. For someone who had been smoking for decades, he was pretty fast. Arthur flew down the hallway, his own speed borne of panic. The heavy fall of footsteps behind him fueled his fear, driving the river to a turgid swell as he dove for the stairwell. Again, escape barely slipped through his fingers, and he was struck to the ground with a mighty thud.

Curt drove Arthur’s chest into the carpet, trying to trap his arms behind him. Arthur squirmed and kicked, valiantly trying to reach the stairs. No matter how hard he tried, though, they seemed to be moving closer to his apartment. Curt wrenched him to his feet, dragging him down the hallway. Dimly, Arthur realized that he wasn’t fighting as well as he should be able to, but there was no time to wonder why. Arthur knew they were getting closer to the apartment, and dug his heels into the carpet without result. Curt flung him through the door.

Arthur hit the floor and sprang up, ready for flight again.

“Siddown!” The order rang in his ears, angrily expelled from suspiciously capable lungs. Arthur sat down. His captor slammed the door shut and locked it. He rummaged through his coat pockets for cigarettes, found one and lit up. He advanced upon Arthur, eyes aflame with anger. The toast has its revenge, thought Arthur. “What the fuck was that, huh? Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur!” Curt took a drag of his cigarette. Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, looking at his feet. Curt paced back and forth in front of him, desperately sucking tar for some semblance of calm. “I’ve got to fucking drag you down a fucking hallway? You fucking yell some shit like that and run? What kind of fucking coward are you!”

Arthur turned off his ears. He stared intently at his feet, and nothing else. The river inside him churned, frightened. He thought of the knife, he thought of the bread, he thought of every thing he had ever done in his life, how much of it a failure.

“I’ve been trying for so long, Arthur. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, or what the fuck goes on in that head of yours, but what you feel and what you do are entirely different! What are you so fucking afraid of?”

Even his own parents were disgusted and tired of him. Only his mother came to watch him leave. And then London, a brief glimpse of what it might be to have confidence. But, all too soon it was taken away. His shoes were becoming blurry.

“Do you really feel like everyone is going to screw you over? What, you think you don’t deserve this? Are you so fucking emotionally stunted that you can’t have a decent relationship with someone?”

Then America, where his accent pegged him for taunts and looks. Begging to attend college, working entry-level, low-paying miserable jobs while he studied and made mediocre grades, and lost any hope of being a novelist. He couldn’t create anything. Try journalism, his professor had said. You don’t have to have to be creative. His eyes were burning.

“Do you even know what the hell you feel? You’re completely in the dark about what anyone else is thinking of. Do you know what it’s like to be happy, Arthur? Do you care? It doesn’t even bother you that you’re fucking constantly depressed?”

Graduating, getting a job at the Herald. He discovered that if he didn’t do anything else, he could write decently. If he only slept and ate, he could hammer out some decent copy, forcing his stilted, half-grown prose into something more human. Friends were made in the office at coffee break, and only lasted until he went home. Each day he died goose-stepping to society.

“We’ve got something here, and fuck if I’m going to throw it away. But you’re a brick wall, man. I keep trying to break through, and you block me out. This isn’t that big a deal! People do it everyday, Arthur! It’s called fucking love!”

He didn’t know anyone. He didn’t know himself. His soul was wrapped in twine, tightly knotted and constrained, his thin, conquered personality leaking out in clear blood from behind his eyes.

“Oh, fuck.” Curt sat down on the coffee table facing Arthur, finishing his cigarette. He carefully snubbed it out, listening to the quiet, tortured sobs. “Listen, Arthur....”

“Fuck off.” Arthur hid his face in his hands, a river running over them.

“No, man. Arthur, just let me in, ok?” Curt flexed his fingers uselessly. He made to touch Arthur and received a sharp slap.

“Go ahead and leave. Go. I don’t care.” Arthur was petulant, laced beneath with deep, deep fear. Curt sighed. He was tired of banging his head against walls that wouldn’t break. His own strength was failing. Arthur needed something, and Curt wasn’t sure he could give it.

“Arthur, I’m not going to leave,” he said tiredly. There was no response. “You do care about this. You care about me. I’m not going to leave you. Ok?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “You’re just a junkie. Washed up, fucked up, still bitching about some boyfriend who dumped you for better things a long time ago. I don’t know what he saw in you.”

Curt saw red. Anger constricted his ribcage; for a minute, he could not move, nor speak, nor even glare. Then he was on his feet serpent-quick, whipping Arthur’s hands from his face.

“I’m not a liar, you fucker! Fucking idiot! I’m not fucking leaving!” he yelled, and snapped Arthur with a vicious backhand. The loud crack of impact reverberated in the room, the echoed rhythm of destruction. Arthur gently touched his swollen cheek, eyes wide, mouth open in shock.

Curt stared back, dumfounded. I hit him, he thought. I’ve fucked it all. Oh fuck. Fuck.

Arthur’s hand fell away. Slowly, things were falling into place. Then he leapt; two rivers rushed at each other, colliding in a spray of foam and rocks, rolling about the living room under a shower of limbs, clothes and furniture. Whether the hoarse, guttural screams were of hate or love, none could tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-negotiated violence (not as part of a sex act.)


	5. The Shattered Lamp

Two hours and thirty-four minutes later, they lay entwined like wolf cubs, licking each other’s wounds. Skin was a last, mottled barrier between them. Curt rubbed his nose along Arthur’s ribs. 

“Ow. That hurts,” Arthur said impassively. Curt hummed in agreement.

“Yeah, man. You’ve got a bruise the size of Indiana.” He gently nibbled at it. Arthur jerked, pulling his ribcage out of reach and replacing it with his back. Curt ran his tongue along copper-flavored valleys. “You know,” he said. “We probably should’ve stopped after we broke the lamp.” 

Arthur yawned and nodded, running a finger along the cuts on Curt’s calf. Then he wrapped around it, pulling it close. 

Curt grunted, shifting as he was pulled off balance. He quirked an eye at a peculiar bruise on Arthur’s hip, wondering at its round shape. He compared the size of it to his mouth. Oh, he thought. That’s what I was biting. He made his way up Arthur’s back, licking at the nape of his neck. Eyes closed in contentment, and slitted open to the color of thunderstorms. He jerked back. “Arthur....” the name left in an exhalation. 

Arthur inclined his head towards Curt, raising an eyebrow. 

Curt reached out a finger, not daring to touch the painful mark on Arthur’s cheek. Even from inches away, the skin was hot, healing itself.“Arthur, I’m... I’m sorry,” he stammered, humiliated. He’d lost his temper countless times, destroying any object nearby in his wrath. But he’d never hit a person anymore. He turned his head, flexing his arms to pull away, but he was firmly pulled back down. Arthur wrapped his limbs around Curt, burying his face in his chest. Curt sighed, returning the embrace. “Arthur,” he said, stroking his hair. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Arthur mumbled something. Curt tugged at his head until his mouth was free. “What?” 

“I said, it’s ok.” Arthur moved to hide his face again, but Curt moved away.

“No, Arthur, it isn’t. I hit you in anger, alright? I caused you pain. There’s a mark on your skin--” Curt cut off, suddenly seeing every bruise and cut on Arthur’s body, all inflicted by him. Arthur was very intently looking elsewhere.

“I really don’t mind,” he said quietly. “I’m sort of....” he paused, swallowed. The next word rumbled from his throat, shameful and aroused at the same time: “Masochistic.” Curt stared. Slowly, he smiled. Then he laughed, great relieved snickers and guffaws that bucked his chest in their haste to escape. Arthur glared at him indignantly. 

Curt shook his head in some sort of apology.“Arthur, I just....” he laughed again. “I think I’ll be ok with that,” he explained, still grinning. “You’ve proved that you can give as good as you get.” Arthur looked as his own signatures on Curt’s body and blushed. Curt laughed again and kissed him. That, of course, lead to Arthur kissing back, and for several minutes they were nice and apathetic again. However, Curt pulled away before it could get really interesting. “But,” he said, looking serious. “You’ve got stop repressing your feelings, or what ever the hell it is you do. I can’t deal with this hot-cold-hot crap. And I don’t want to be stuck with the results of your mad rages.” 

Arthur sat up, offended.“My rage?” he protested. “Today you hit me first!” 

Curt sat up as well, and pointed a finger at Arthur’s chest.“You’re the one who ran out of the apartment.” he countered.

“You followed me!” 

“You were being stupid!”

“I was not!” Arthur shoved Curt backwards. “I really felt we shouldn’t be together!” He exclaimed. 

Curt snorted.“Yeah. I suppose you carefully thought it out, and came up with a list of real good reasons, right?” He smirked at Arthur, waiting for the kill. 

Arthur bit his lip, glancing around.“Well, yeah,” he said. “There were plenty of reasons....” Curt crossed his arms and leaned back, obviously waiting. Arthur chewed a nail. He looked up. “You’re annoying,” he said. 

Curt rolled his eyes.“What makes you say that,” he wondered.

“You’re always talking to me--”

“God forbid we have actual conversations,” Curt snidely replied.

“You followed me around New York for two weeks--”

“Aren’t you glad I did?” 

Arthur ignored that. He hurried on.“You mess up my apartment, you leave the toilet seat up--”

“We’re both guys, Arthur.”

“And you keep touching me when I don’t want you to!” he finished, confident that the last was a good reason. 

However, Curt’s leer soon informed him of his mistake.“You don’t like it when I touch you?” Cut asked softly, crawling towards him.

“Well, I... uh....” Arthur’s mouth flapped about like a fish. Curt gently covered it with his own, sliding a hand down Arthur’s chest and belly to more responsive regions. Arthur suddenly remembered to breathe as Curt pulled away.

Curt sat smirking at him.“Well, I guess you’re right, Arthur. You don’t like it when I touch you. I should never touch you again,” he said, standing up. 

Arthur tackled him to the floor, kissing him furiously.“Fine,” Arthur spat out, covering Curt’s body with his own. He pointed a finger at Curt’s nose. “But I don’t like it when you cuddle!” 

Curt made a noise of complaint.“But I like cuddling!” he whined. 

Arthur scoffed.“Then get a bloody teddy bear,” he said, dancing away from Curt’s grasp.

“But a teddy bear doesn’t wiggle!” Curt protested, grabbing hold of Arthur’s ankle.

“Then--” Arthur grunted, trying to escape. “Why don’t you put a vibrator in it!” he yelled.

Arthur froze, shocked at the words that had come out of his mouth. Curt froze, dropping Arthur’s foot and staring. Their eyes locked, struggling to find some sort of response. Suddenly, Curt chuckled. Arthur, after a moment, joined in. Soon, they were both laughing so hard they couldn’t see. Curt crawled over Arthur, wrapping his arms around him while he was distracted. Arthur didn’t even bother to struggle. He relaxed into the embrace, accepting his fate. 

Curt smiled victoriously.“Well, now that we’ve established that you don’t really mind touching--” 

Arthur grumbled a bit, just on principle. 

Curt pinched him and continued. “There’s no reason for us not to be together,” he said, somewhat smugly. Arthur sobered up, looking at his nails.

“Well....” he trailed off. 

Curt turned to face him.“Come on Arthur, out with it,” he said sternly. 

Arthur sighed.“We don’t communicate,” he said. 

Curt opened his mouth, trying to think of some delicate way to answer.“Arthur,” he began. “Whose fault do you think that is?” 

Arthur gaped at him.“It’s not mine!” he cried. 

“Yeah it is,” Curt said simply. He tightened his arms around Arthur, stopping any attempt to escape. Arthur nudged anxiously against his warm prison, but calmed as Curt pet him, murmuring soothingly in his ear. “Now, Arthur, for this to work, you’ve got to tell me what you feel, ok?” Arthur nodded. “And to do that, you’ve got to admit it to yourself, first.” 

Arthur nodded again, moving out of the embrace. He stared at the floor, eyes very far away. He looked up at Curt.“Curt, I....” he trailed off, unable to finish. He timidly touched his fingers to Curt’s, trying to speak with his eyes. Curt brightened under Arthur’s gaze, leaning towards him.

“Really?” he asked hopefully. Arthur nodded solemnly, biting his lip. Curt seemed to glow. His face broke out in smile and he wiggled, hopping into Arthur’s arms. “Great!” he said happily, eyes shining. 

He was really worried about that, thought Arthur regretfully. He smiled at Curt, leaning down for a genuine kiss. 

“But you know,” Curt said as they parted again, tapping Arthur’s chest. “I’ll make you say it eventually.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Curt laughed.


	6. Epilogue

The janitor was already packing away the Christmas decorations when Lou returned to the office. He settled back in, checking off the 25th and 26th on the calender and sitting at his desk. He poked through the papers there, picking out one that caught his eye. Arthur’s been working over the holidays again, he thought. He made to skim over it, but found himself reading it more thoroughly. He got up and poked his out of the office. 

“Hey Jimmy,” he called. “Tell Arthur to see me when he gets in, alright?” The reporter nodded, going back to his work. Lou went back to his office, chuckling as he laid the article on his desk. That Arthur, he thought, shaking his head.

A few hours later, Arthur poked his head in the door.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked. Lou waved him in.

“Yeah, come on in Arthur,” he said, making a few last notes on the papers in front of him. He looked up. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “That’s a beaut, Arthur!” Arthur ran a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting down, his black eye obvious in the bright light. “You should see the other guy.” Lou clicked his tongue.

“Oh Arthur, tell me you weren’t fighting on Christmas,” he admonished lightly. Arthur shrugged.

“He hit me first,” he said. Lou chuckled.

“Alright then. Anyway, I called you in here, Arthur, because I just read your article on the Scant murders--”

“Oh, I dropped that off yesterday. I didn’t get to do as much research as I wanted.” Arthur cut in. Lou shook his head.

“Nah, nah, it’s fine. I was thinking about your style,” he said. Arthur furrowed his brow. 

“I was trying to finish it quickly,” he offered. “I’m sorry if it’s careless....” Lou shook his head again.

“Arthur, it’s fine,” he said smiling. “In fact, it’s pretty damn good. I’m glad to see you’re loosening up with this.” Arthur blinked.

“Oh yeah?” he said, his accent slurring his words. Lou nodded.

“Yeah. That’s all I wanted to say, Arthur, keep up the good work. And put some ice on that,” he added. Arthur grinned and stood up, thanking him. He watched as Arthur walked stiffly out of the office, rubbing painfully at a shoulder. Must have been one hell of a fight, thought Lou. 


End file.
